


Patches

by jazzfic



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types, Hunger Games Trilogy - Suzanne Collins
Genre: F/M, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-02
Updated: 2014-09-02
Packaged: 2018-02-15 21:05:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2243469
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jazzfic/pseuds/jazzfic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He was creative in that way, even with his own darkness.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Patches

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Prompts In Panem colours week, day 2: Orange.

He noticed the mannequin immediately. It stood stark and white in the corner of the room, staring them down like a strange sentry to fashion. It was unnerving, to say the least, so when there fell a lull in the conversation, Peeta asked, as gently as he could, “Why don’t you dress her? She looks cold all unclothed like that.”

However Effie would not reply. Not to that query, at least. On that sun drenched afternoon with the grandfather clock thrumming its deep, steady note from out in the hall, she seemed more interested in making sure they were fed to the gills. “Oh, I haven’t a thing fit to be put on display, Peeta dear, I’m sure,” she said dismissively, following this with a nod towards the tea set and plate of sandwiches. “Would you pour? We mustn’t let the leaves steep.”

Peeta shared a glance with Katniss as he bent over the pot, but he said nothing more. They chatted about incidentals for the rest of their visit, both pretending not to notice how their former escort covered one hand with the other, the nails on the ends of her now plump and slightly wrinkled fingers free of any polish, and that she occasionally muttered quietly to herself as she sat in her chair. 

 

-

 

This trip to the Capitol had meant to be a short one – one week for appointments that were a necessary evil, get in, get out again. Even after some twenty years, and even with all the changes that had taken a generation and more to finally settle there, neither of them were able to stand any real length of time in that grand, mirror-like place. They had left a sixteen-year-old and a twelve-year-old at home, both sworn to look after the other with all the ferocity of a mama bear, while having a burnt out Haymitch as backup keeping ‘an eye’ on them. And although just one day had passed, Peeta was already finding himself moderator to several hysterical phone conferences between Katniss and their unpredictable, irresistible offspring. 

If only trips away from home ran as smoothly as the train that took them here and back, he thought, a little sourly. They’d probably be bored senseless.

“I can’t imagine what possible trend she’s trying to follow with that thing in her sitting room,” said Katniss later, as they took their dinner – bowls of thick vegetable soup, portable and warming – out onto the balcony of their rooms. The evening was still and mild, and the sunset, typically lavish for the Capitol, was just beginning to strike out golden white rays off the tallest buildings. 

They sat, dipping pieces of bread; Peeta slurped at the broth until his teeth latched onto a circle of parsnip. They didn’t taste at all like the ones in Twelve; probably hydroponic, pale and well formed but perfectly tasteless, like much of everything here. After swallowing he gave a shrug. “It’s Effie. You know how she is.”

“Maybe, but... don’t you think she’s changed?”

“How so?” Peeta smiled. “D’you think she’s getting a bit odd in her twilight years? Then so have we, Katniss. You can’t hold that against her. She’s probably just missing some of those outfits.”

Katniss said nothing, so Peeta turned his attention back to the view. He finished eating first, then waited for her, like he often did at home; when she got up he did too, and he held out his hand for her bowl, taking the other and brushing his thumb over her knuckles. He felt rather than saw her smile into his shirtsleeve as she pressed her face against him. A brief thing, but something he could ply apart in the corner of his mind that held no darkness as he thought of Effie, and this place. Their shared past was so fused that thoughts like those always seemed to slot into the other, whether he welcomed them or not. 

 

-

 

As frivolous as it all sounded, he remembered their conversation, when, not a day later, they were back being sociable. Three people sitting somewhat awkwardly in over-stuffed chairs wasn’t exactly the event of the year, but Effie did love a good show of manners, launching herself at Katniss and Peeta the moment they sat down, practically bubbling with gossip about this person and that, each name more meaningless than the last. After about a half-hour of this Peeta began to sense that Katniss was getting ready to launch into all the reasons why they not only didn’t know who the hell these people were, but couldn’t possibly in a hundred years come close to caring. So he changed the topic.

“Effie, do you still have that dress?”

Two pairs of eyes fell on him; Katniss’s frankly suspicious; he ignored her – easy to do because he had a mission now and in his heart he knew it was a good one – focusing instead on Effie. Peeta put down his cup and saucer and looked her in the eye, waiting. 

She softened almost immediately. “Which one, dear? There were many.”

“Butterflies,” he said, with a quick smile. “Dozens of orange butterflies.” And yes, it was perseverance now that make him continue, knowing full well that not one of them could possibly recall that dress without the day, or the day without the dress. But that was the thing, there wasn’t a single fur collar, dagger sharp heel or mad, couture nightmare in their past that didn’t bring with it a shadow of confusion and pain. If Peeta stopped every time he encountered one he’d barely move each day. 

Effie was quiet for a long moment. He focused on her eyes so that she was sure of him, and he thought he saw the wall rising up again, the same one from the other day that had fallen so hard he’d almost felt welts bloom in his fingertips. Then Effie stood, beckoning with a gesture that somehow both forgave and lent her acceptance. 

“Come, children,” she said. 

Katniss actually groaned in his ear as they trailed obediently in a trail of cherry blossom perfume, and he knew it wasn’t for being called what they hadn’t been for many years. “Really? Playing dress-up?”

He poked her side. “Hey, feel free to stay here and chat with the grandfather clock if you want.”

“Ugh...” 

She angled away from his fingers. She knew him too well.

 

-

 

To say the wardrobe had seen better days was a truth turned the wrong way round. Better days was relative, extremely relative to a much bigger picture. No, it was more accurate to say there once was a dress, that dress was once perfect in every way, and now it... wasn’t. 

“This is sad,” murmured Katniss. They watched Effie turn in a small circle, eyes darting at empty coat-hangers, the few remaining garments pushed together as if huddling for warmth. “We shouldn’t let her do this.”

“Trust me.” Peeta squeezed her hand, then raised his voice, pointing to the far wall. “I think I see it, Effie,” he said, and ventured forward, hesitating in his step because though he wanted to push her, he didn’t want to disturb what little world she had still standing in this bare forest. 

Effie nodded. His hands fell onto a black hanger, a half closed garment bag weighing it down. Out came the dress, scattering butterflies as bright orange as if they’d been pasted on new. But a few caught on the zip and he watched them fall, settling on his shoes in a hazy cloud. From the corner of his eye he saw Katniss fold her arms across her chest and turn away. And he noticed Effie, too, standing above him as he bent to pick them up, her lips slack and a tightness around her eyes again.

“Um. It’s okay,” he said, looking at them both, aware of the hiccup in his voice that threatened to jump from a chuckle to a shaken breath, as torn as he felt in his determination. “It’s okay, I want to help. I can fix them, Effie.”

The look did not change. His stomach fell.

“My darling... no. You can’t.” 

She reached for him, meaning to comfort, he supposed. But Peeta found he couldn’t move. Frustration and confusion swung distantly though him, and he stood, breathing carefully and clutching two of the butterflies. Black dust and orange dust coated his fingers, as if piece of coal had lit up and turned itself into a glowing sun, to set in the fleshly pit of his hand.

 

-

 

Katniss said little that night, but three, four minutes after turning out out the bedside light Peeta felt her hand brush his stomach. He covered it at once with his own. He didn’t speak, nor did he turn to seek out the delicate and sharp shape of her mouth in the dark. When the sun broke through hours later neither had moved, and only then did her eyes become curious, and did his give in, and their breathing hurry into a kind of soft, sloppy forgiveness. 

He’d been in this situation before, with Haymitch, with Hawthorne (and hadn’t that ended well)... Katniss, certainly, but that was a given. He’d always be trying to make amends, patch up the things he couldn’t remember being broken but knew with great certainty had suffered injury at his doing. 

He was creative in that way, even with his own pain.

Peeta exhaled slowly and peeled back the covers. He sat on the edge of the bed and looked down at Katniss, at the lithe body still smooth at it was years ago. He remembered the night he first saw her like this, when he’d come out of a flashback to find her arms cradling him on the bedroom floor, when they’d whispered to each other until she shed her hunting clothes and the scent of wet leaves and had watched, still and focused, as he mounted his lips over her breast. 

He remembered trying to be better, trying to revert to the Peeta from before. 

He remembered Katniss yelling _don’t_ – 

Peeta lived to make people happy. If he could encourage something into being, a feeling that ran to goodness, no matter how deep or dire the situation, then he’d do it, he’d do it until he could do no more. Like when he used to park his son on his knees when the boy was still small, and try very hard to laugh at everything. It didn’t always work. Oftentimes it hardly ever worked. The male section of the household didn’t usually win, you see, so they had to make the best of what they had. Peeta was team clown; he was Captain Fun with a flour covered cape. 

And maybe Effie couldn’t be reached, not now, like those parts of Katniss that never really opened up; like his own frailties that he kept bundled away.

Everything was harder to reach these days, he thought. Maybe, who knew, maybe that mannequin was better off a bare, blank palette...

“The train leaves at six tonight. I should call,” said Peeta, “give the kids ample warning.” 

Katniss nodded. “Okay.”

She was looking at him closely. In answer he bent to her lips, kissing them open. But she smiled and broke off almost in the same moment, a gentle rejection prodding him away and into action, as far as she could get him from his thoughts.

He’d make another call, too, Peeta decided. Apologise to Effie for leaving the way they had, and thank her, properly. 

It was time to go home.


End file.
